Our Cocoon -- A Poem

You're still sleeping.

And I'm up,
trying to work, to focus
to not log on
to you know what.

I catch a moth in the dim hall
search
every
inch
of a closed window

for the lightening
canyon morning beyond.

And shit, I can't ignore
a really trite metaphor:
I am that moth; my life, my work,
my appetites this dim hall;

and the window,
the membrane through which I watch
the moon melt into morning,

my dirty, dirty, dirty mind.

And all my effort to run from this
- from you from me, from work from sin -
another rush against the glass,
expecting it to yield.

As if the frantic, busy banging
against this tall, cerebral pane
could offer real release;

from everything and you,
to everything and you.

Maybe I'll take five,
and eat some sweaters.